


Chief

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot, b/d
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 02:20:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim gets pushy, Blair gets tough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chief

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Wife's Note: Yep, that's right. My husband wrote this for me ("Do you mind if I write you a slash story?" he asks. "That's a rhetorical question, right? I reply). I should explain - Rick is a writer and wanted to do something a bit different; and I guess if you're a straight male then m/m erotica is about as different as you can get (especially bdsm)! He'd love some feedback, but I ask you, please be kind. He's supposed to be writing another, more humorous story and if he gets flamed I'll probably never see it!

## Chief

by Richard Edwards

Author's disclaimer: No Sentinels or Guides were harmed in the making of this story. The loft was thoroughly cleaned. All characters were returned to Pet Fly in good working order.

* * *

Chief  
by Richard Edwards 

**ONE**

Washing the final remains of the previous night's activities from his body, Blair Sandburg chuckled to himself. The military mind, he thought, was decidedly an enigma. On the one hand, military men were trained incessantly to follow orders, follow orders, follow orders. On the other hand, they were expected to think for themselves, to improvise where necessary, and to always, always complete their objectives. When matched to a personality like his own, a creative, free-wheeling, take-no-orders persona, it made for a very interesting relationship. One that stretched the boundaries of normal society, and even the boundaries of credulity. 

Who would expect a man like Jim Ellison to treat a man like Blair as his equal? And sometimes, under the right circumstances, as his superior? Take last night, for instance. It had all started out quite innocently, with Blair coming home to find Jim stretched out on the couch, beer in hand, watching a basketball game on TV. 

"Well, isn't this the picture of domestic tranquillity?" Sandburg said, dropping the boxes of take-out Chinese on the nearest table. 

"Brrrrraaapppp!" Ellison belched in reply, the stink of it just barely trailing the sound, which just barely preceded the smile of satisfaction he shot at Blair. 

"Oh, now that's an intelligent reply," Sandburg said. "I think that's the very same mode of communication the Pequana Indians of Brazil use before killing their enemies. Or is it kissing their enemies? I can never really remember." 

"Brrrrraaaakkkkk!" came the disdainful reply, if a belch could indeed reflect disdainfulness. 

Oh. Fine. Two could play at this game, Blair thought as he strode into the kitchen and grabbed a can of beer from the fridge. Chugging the beer and unpacking the food, he eyed Jim suspiciously. There. Yes. That old Ellison smugness, that Ranger attitude that said 'I'm a better man than you, and this only proves it.' Well, he'd wipe that smugness right off his face. He only hoped that their apartment insurance would pay for the broken windows when he let loose his blast. 

He could feel the foam bubbling up in his gut and quickly swallowed a bubble of air to get things moving. How do I know how to do this? No matter. Let Ellison choke on this one. "Blurp. 'Scuse me." What the heck was that? And why had he apologized for it? He waited, cringing, for Ellison's sure to be scornful reaction. He wasn't disappointed. 

"You're excused, Chief," Ellison said, the surprised contempt now plain upon his face. Obviously he'd expected a much more strenuous reply to his challenge. "Perhaps you should stick to tea next time. Much more civilized." 

Sandburg just gulped the rest of his beer while setting the plates out on the coffee table. Moo Goo Gai Pan, bought with his meager salary, thanks to a bet he lost earlier in the week regarding, or all things, anthropology. He now knew it'd been a complete set- up, with Jim pulling some arcane fact out of Sandburg's books and then challenging him on it. That's what he got for living with a detective. But more importantly, there sure seemed to be a lot of challenging going on lately. 

Sandburg opened another beer, enjoying the unique taste combination of beer and Chinese food. Probably not how the old Chinese emperors expected their contribution to Western civilization to be enjoyed. Not that they could do anything about it right now. With the foamy bubbles filling his gut once again, Blair contemplated another try. Not yet, he cautioned himself. There'd be no recovering from another failure. 

"Hey! What the" Blair exclaimed as pieces of rice dropped from his shirt onto the table. He glared accusingly at Jim, who sat intently watching the game. Only a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his delusions of triumph. Blair bent to clean the rice from the table. When he glanced up again, it was just in time to see another volley headed right for his face, where it hit with a sodden "plunk" before dropping to the table. Jim sat as before, his head quivering as though he was suppressing some strong emotion. Like laughter? 

As before, Blair bent to clean up the mess, suddenly whipping his head up and catching Jim in the act of lining up another shot. "Don't" Blair began, too late, as he caught another rice shot dead in the face. He squinted his eyes, clearing the grains from his lashes. "I hope you realize" he said in his best Bugs Bunny imitation, "this means war." 

With that he scooped up a big spoonful of rice and flicked it at Jim, who, thanks to the shotgun effect of Blair's shot, could only block some of the grains with his arm. In no time, grains of rice filled the air, with both combatants crouched behind their respective sofas for protection. Direct hits were now rare, and both had to make do with the damage done by high-flying rounds of rice artillery. We're running out of ammunition, Blair realized as his spoon hit the bottom of his carton. He spied his carton of sauce and meat on the table between them. So far both had avoided the obviously messy ammo. But desperate times called for desperate measures. 

Downing the rest of his beer, he tossed the can into the far corner as a diversion before leaping over the couch to grab his carton of sauce, and then leaped again over Jim's couch to catch him by surprise. 

"You" Ellison could only begin to blurt out before a glop of gooey sauce began streaming down his head. In the Geneva Convention of food fights, they'd been fighting with conventional weapons. Blair had just unleashed a nuclear bomb. Which, of course, called for retaliation in kind. 

In seconds Blair found himself pinned to the floor, a carton of Moo Goo Gai Pan sauce teetering precariously over his head. In hand-to-hand combat he was no match for the experienced Ranger, and he knew it. He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable. It came as expected, the pungent sauce quickly matting his hair and running into his ears. Surprisingly, none of it covered his face. He wants me to see the victory in his eyes, Blair decided. OK. Let's see it. 

As expected, Jim looked down at him in total triumph, not phased in the least by the sauce still dripping from his neck. To that, Blair had only one thing to say. 

"Brrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaacccccckkkkkkk!" he belched u p at his friend, pleased to see that the smell immediately brought tears to Jim's eyes. 

"Point taken, Chief," Ellison had said, carefully climbing off Blair. 

"Bllaarp," Sandburg had burped for emphasis. 

Now, as he finished his shower, he looked in amusement at the rice clinging to the sides of the show. He'd let Jim clean it all up. Because yesterday had been Jim's shot at glory. Tonight, he promised himself, belongs to me. And so would Ellison. 

**TWO**

"Ellison!" Simon Banks' voice didn't quite cut through the hubbub of the bullpen so much as permeate it, reaching Jim and Blair as forcefully as it had left. In that single word Banks had managed to convey authority, decisiveness, impatience and toughness. In other words, all of the qualities that set leaders apart from followers, and commanders apart from mere leaders. It was, in short, an order to appear. 

As a matter of course, Sandburg accompanied Ellison to Banks' office. Not because he'd been included in the order. But because it'd be easier to take the sideways looks from Banks than it would be to put up with more teasing from the rest of the squad room. Det. Brown in particular looked like he had something up his sleeve. And Sandburg didn't know if he had a vocabulary low enough to parry with Brown. So, better the devil you know 

"Sit down, Ellison. And you too, Sandburg." Banks was getting right to the point. No chit-chat. Not good. "As you may have noticed, we've had a dearth of serious crime in Cascade recently. No murders of U.N. delegates. No high-profile robberies of art exhibits that need better security. And not a single terrorist incident that threatens the life of every man, woman and child in Cascade. In short, the perfect time to catch up on some SOLs." 

Blair looked at the two of them in confusion. SOLs? What the heck was that, and why did Jim have such a sour look on his face? 

"Statutes of Limitations, chief," Jim rescued Blair. "Or shit- out-of-luck, depending on your point-of-view. The open cases where the crimes aren't so serious that the cases stay open forever. Not like murder and mayhem. No, these are the tweeners, the small- scale embezzlements, the minor blackmails, the unfinished lawsuits. For instance, say someone blackmailed you for a thousand bucks, you paid up, and that person escaped prosecution for more than seven years. According to this state's law, they could show up on your doorstep seven years and one day later and you couldn't prosecute them in the least." Jim smiled as Blair shook his head, amazed once again at the bizarreness of the U.S. judicial system. "Of course, not many people would blame you if you didn't just kick the shit outta them." 

"What it means, Sandburg, is that you and Ellison get to do some good old American police work. Burnin' some shoe leather. Workin' the phones. Diggin' out leads. Not quite as glorious as dropping forty feet onto a crazed gunman's head, but still plenty worthwhile." 

"You got it, Cap," Jim replied as he grabbed the huge stack of files. Blair followed along, amazed that Jim had taken on such a boring job. When they did have down time, Jim tended to re- examine some of the major open cases for clues they may have overlooked. But these SOLs? Something weird was going on. 

**THREE**

It didn't take long for Blair to realize why Jim had so eagerly accepted the SOLs. Because, when they got into them, Blair ended up doing all the work. 

"See, Chief, it's like this. I have to organize each file based on my understanding of police procedure. And understanding you don't share. While I'm doing that, you might as well be calling all the victims, witnesses and what-not. Just tell them you're with the Cascade PD, you're taking another look into the case, and ask them if anything has changed. If anything sounds promising, like the perp is ready to confess, let me know and I'll take it from there. So, go ahead, get dialing," he'd ordered Blair, setting the telephone in front of his face. Blair didn't fail to notice the look of self-satisfaction on Jim's face as he set him to work. 

OK. Fine. He could do this. He opened the top file. First case: the dog-napping of Bootsy, dearest pet of little Jimmy Babcock. Whoo-boy, what excitement! He dialed the number, surprised to find that it was still connected to the Babcock residence. "Hello?" answered a woman's voice, sounding a little harried and distracted. 

"Hello, ma'am. This is Blair Sandburg of the Cascade Police Department." He studiously ignored Jim's warning look. After all, if he was going to do cop investigating, he sure as hell was going to use a little cop influence. Besides, what could it hurt? "Is James Babcock available to talk?" 

"Do you want James the Senior or James the Junior? Cuz James the Senior is sitting here on his ass when he should be out cutting the lawn!" she declared, her voice rapidly rising as she made her point to someone in a nearby room. 

"I guess I want James the Junior," Blair replied, still wincing from the woman's yell. 

"Oh, well, he's over at the college. Is there something I should tell him. He's not in trouble with the police, is he?" she asked, finally focusing on his identity rather than her on-going husband troubles. 

"No, ma'am. No trouble. I'm just checking back on theuhdog-nappingof hisuhBootsy" 

"Bootsy? Bootsy! Bootsy was taken from our house, what, seven years ago? Frank, they're calling about Bootsy! What can you tell us about Bootsy?" 

Whoops. He hadn't framed his question well at all. "No, ma'am. I don't know anything further. Why I was calling was to find out if, um, there'd been any change on your part? Anything new to report?" 

"Anything new for 'me' to report?" she asked, the light beginning to dawn. "You mean you don't have anything to report?" 

"Uh, no ma'am." 

"Of course not, Mr. Cascade Policeman! Cuz when Bootsy went missing he was already ten years old, and James the Junior was 13. So if James the Junior is now 20, that makes little Bootsy about 17\. That's about a million in dog years. Now, I don't know what you think, but the chances of little Bootsy turning up alive and breathing are just about zilch. So what I want to know is if this is what our tax dollars are paying for. Are we paying all this money so you can spend your time looking for a dog that's probably dead already? Cuz if that's what you're trying to tell me, I have the address of a councilman who'd just love to know about it. Frank! They're still trying to find Bootsy, the morons. Just wait til I tell Jimmy about this." 

"Thanks for your time, ma'am," Blair quickly said before hanging up the phone, trying to act as if nothing untoward had happened. It had not, he decided, been a good beginning to the day's work. 

**FOUR**

Three hours later, Blair was absolutely certain that Jim had given him the shit work on purpose. He'd been screamed at, lied to, laughed at, humiliated and sworn at. Only once had he needed to hand the phone over to Jim, and after listening to the witness and Jim laugh it up, he'd known that he was the butt of the joke. Worst of all, Ellison didn't even have the courtesy to look smug about all this. He just sat there, studiously going through the files, as Blair became Mr. Bad Guy of the Cascade PD. 

On its own, this behavior could be chalked up to mere hazing of the non-cop guy. But taken with last night's events and several other instigations over the past few weeks, it seemed clear that Jim was trying to establish some sort of dominance. Exactly the sort of behavior that Jim had asked Blair to squelch at the first opportunity. In fact, he'd made Blair promise to squelch it. 

So, time to change the rules. Searching through his backpack, Blair finally found the biggest rule-changer in the world. In their world, at least. A Mayan coin, several hundred years old, it displayed the likeness of a certain chieftain few would recognize outside the academic world. In monetary terms, it was worth over $10,000. In terms of their relationship, it was worth much more. By displaying the coin, Blair was sending Jim a signal, a very definite communication of intent. Much like the Mayan chieftain of so long ago, Blair was putting Jim on notice that after sunset Jim would owe his full allegiance to Blair. And by full, he meant full. 

He placed the coin on the table between them. If Jim left it there, it would mean that Jim wasn't prepared to give his full allegiance that night, for whatever reason. And Blair would be faced with a complex problem, because Jim's displays of dominance were becoming more frequent, and truthfully called for a response from Blair. If Jim took and kept the coin, then come sunset Blair would be back in the driver's seat. And then he could put an end to this traitorous behavior. 

Blair watched as Jim slowly picked up and hefted the coin, feeling its inherent power. He looked smugly at Blair, knowing that for now, at least, he was in the catbird's seat. He held the power to say yes or no. By saying yes he would give all his power away. But by saying no, he might be jeopardizing all the power he'd built up. It was the kind of decision Ellison loved to make. Blair could easily read Jim's emotions as he weighed the options, the benefits, and measured the balance of power. He wasn't too surprised when Jim then pocketed the coin. 

Blair had hoped that the upcoming transfer of power would make Jim ease off a little. In fact, he seemed to take additional pleasure in exhorting Blair to get back to his duties. To Blair, this meant only one thing. Jim wanted Blair tired, fed up and pissed off when the day ended. The kind of mood that portended a hard end to a hard day. 

**FIVE**

Though tired, fed up and pissed off, Blair felt a familiar feeling of anticipation as the clock ticked towards 7:51, the official sunset in Cascade for that evening. They played this game by strict rules, though Blair had quite a bit of autonomy once it started. Blair's biggest job during the next few hours would be to assess his friend's mental state and root out all signs of arrogance, smugness or superiority. That arrogance, according to Jim, was one of his primary downfalls. The cause of many of the tribulation in his life. And as their relationship had evolved from a loving, 50/50 relationship to its current state, Jim had come to realize that the new state of affairs helped to ground him, to keep him from becoming Mr. High and Mighty. At least, that's what he'd told Blair. For his part, Blair believed Jim's motivations were much more complex. 

But for now, Blair was willing to ignore the underlying motivations and take pleasure in the moment. Especially the moment that would begin Right now. "You should know by now, son, that your head should never be above mine," Blair admonished from his seat in the easy chair. 

It was the use of the diminutive "son" that got Jim's attention more than the criticism. That 'son' indicated a specific scenario would be followed for the evening, one in which he would perform specific tasks at specific times according to a script that had evolved over time. A script that brooked no variance on his part. Still, with the way he'd been feeling the last few weeks, he let a little mischievousness show through, electing to sit on the couch rather than kneel on the floor. Now, technically, his head was not above Blair's. 

Blair sighed and made a sour face, as if he'd just gotten a whiff of something putrid. Much of Jim's behavior lately could be laid at his own feet. He'd been lax with Jim, believing that the lack of a major crime would allow him to relax and find his center. But, instead of obsessing over a case, Jim had evidently begun obsessing over himself and his place in the world. Blair believed that Jim was addicted to being in control. Under that theory, these little sessions were a good way to decompress and to give up, if only for a few hours, the illusion of control. And Blair had been lax in scheduling these therapeutic sessions. 

Blair sighed again and stared Jim straight in the eye, until the power of his gaze forced the other man to a seat on the floor. While the scenario he'd selected precluded any overt discipline, he did have a few punishments at his disposal. He'd use one to try and burn off some of the testosterone that was evidently overloading his friend's brain. 

"Strip," he ordered the man on the floor, purposely keeping him below his eye level. Although he'd seen Jim's body dozens of times, he still marveled at the smooth hairlessness of it. In this way, it reminded Blair of Kung Qua Ho, a Korean exchange student with whom Blair had shared a short and passionate summer. Unlike Ho, Jim's body was a sculpted mass of muscles, the kind a man gets from actually working, rather than just working out. To oil such a body would have been superfluous, like putting a Speedo on the statue of David. 

"Now drop and give me twenty, son," Blair ordered. In this context, he meant push-ups. But later in the night 

"Yessir," Jim replied, the slight pause revealing that he hadn't quite surrendered all of his will to the man in the chair. Like a machine Jim pushed at the floor, not so much lifting himself as forcing the floor away from him. All sleek lines and flexing muscles, Jim might have posed for a DaVinci drawing to be called "Exercising Man." Minus, of course, his torpid cock, the head of which kissed the floor with every downward motion. Blair ached to stick his head under there and capture it in his mouth while Jim exercised above him. He could almost smell the mixture of sweat and musk, could almost feel the snake uncoiling and hardening in his mouth. But no, that would be a sign of weakness, and he needed to be strong, at least for the first part of this evening. 

"Twenty more," he ordered when Jim had paused in the ready position. Blair knew that Jim could do about a hundred before really beginning to labor, but he just wanted the endorphins to overcome the testosterone a little, not drive him to exhaustion. After the second set of twenty, it was finally time to dance. 

"What is it you want, son?" Blair asked, his eyes boring into Jim's. 

"I want what you want, sir," Jim replied, the scripted reply but communicated with true sincerity. 

"What I want, son, is for you to make me happy. What will you do to make me happy?' 

"Anything, sir. Anything." 

"Then come over here and help me get ready." For Blair, this was one of his favorite parts, watching Jim crawl over, feeling the strong hands reach inside his waistband, enjoying the way Jim's rasping breath repeatedly warmed his groin. "Now, you know what I like." 

At this cue from Blair, Jim transformed himself into the man he could only be in this room, with this man. A man who was the total opposite of the persona he showed the rest of the world. He let all his arms and legs go loose. He laid his head pitifully on his friend's thigh. He stared morosely at his friend's cock. And when he spoke, it was in a whiny, whimpery tone; the tone of a man who'd been beaten by life and didn't care who knew it. A man not even in control of himself, much less the environment he lived in. It was not something that Blair liked to hear, and was certainly not something for the outside world to share. Still, it made Jim feel better, and was oddly erotic for Blair, too. 

"Please, sir. May I touch it?" Ellison pleaded in a simpering voice. 

"Gently, son. Gently. And tell me what you think of it." 

"It's soso bigand soso powerful," Jim stuttered, struggling in his weakened persona to find the words. "I want it in my mouth. I want to eat it. I want to make it harder and bigger and hotter. I want" 

"What you want is of no concern of mine," Blair admonished him, noting how Jim cringed down at the gentle rebuke. Good. He was now fully into his character. "What I want should be your only concern. And what I want is for you to lick my balls. And keep licking them until I tell you to stop. Keep licking them until you get my cum good and hot. Keep licking them until your own balls ache with the need to taste what's inside mine." 

Blair nearly groaned aloud as his friend's tongue found its target. Jim's entire demeanor was of subservience, a condition so deep, so lacking in self-esteem that his only self-worth came from the few small compliments Blair might give him during the evening. This poor creature before his was so out of character from the Jim Ellison everyone knew that he might as well be another character entirely. A Doppelganger of the most whimpering, pathetic sort. 

And that's how they both like it. 

Despite his best efforts to concentrate elsewhere, having a tongue so near to his cock was beginning to make it rise. No matter. After the first minute or so, that kind of stimulation paled in intensity quite dramatically. Time for the first of many main courses. 

"What I want now, son, is for you to wrap your lips around my cock. Put my dick in your mouth and suck on it. And let me know how much you like it, how much you want me to cum in your mouth." 

"Oh, yessss, please cum in my mouth, sir. Please shoot your cum on my tongue, so I can swallow and keep a part of you. Yessss, sir. Yesss." 

This time Blair did groan aloud as the soft lips engulfed his rapidly growing member. He loved this point where it was still soft and flexible enough to fit entirely in his lover's mouth. Soon, though, it had grown so stiff and straight that only a portion fit in Jim's mouth. But what a tremendous sensation that small portion afforded. At Blair's urging, Jim mumbled his appreciation at being able to please Blair in this way. Every muffled word and hot breath only added to the delirious mixture of sensations he now enjoyed. 

For several minutes Jim worked on his roommate, his strong jaw and talented mouth bringing groans of pleasure from Blair. It was clear that he was on the edge; just one task remained. Pushing Jim's head from his crotch, Blair demanded, "Son, what do you want?" 

"I want your cum." 

"What do you want?" he repeated, emphasizing each word. 

"I want your cum!" Jim answered plaintively, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. 

"What do you want?" Blair asked, trying once again to jar the correct answer from the whimpering, forgetful man before him. 

"I want" Finally, the light dawned, and the correct, time- tested answer sprang to Jim's mind. "I want to be like you!" 

"Then take me!" Blair cried, thrusting his cock back into Jim's mouth. As Jim began sucking anew, Blair could hold back no longer and let his cum spew into the mouth before him. Three more spurts drained him and he was glad that he'd remained sitting for this one. Looking down at his friend, his ward for the evening, he was pleased to see that he'd shot so much cum that some of it had ended up outside Jim's mouth. And looking farther down, he was even more pleased to see that his friend's cock was stiff and straining, hoping, even begging for a release that evening. 

Perhaps he'd have Jim jack himself off. Perhaps he'd demand another blow-job. Perhaps he'd have Jim cum on Blair's cock and then force him to lick it off. Maybe a little anal probing was in order, though anal sex was not part of this scenario. But that was all for later. Right now he'd just enjoy the feeling of someone lovingly clean the cum off his cock. And the sight of Jim's cock bobbing around as he bent to the task. And the sound of Jim's voice as he pleaded for more. After all, who deserved it more than hethe Chief. 

* * *

End

 


End file.
